


we make a little history (every time you come around)

by Sar_Kalu



Series: Good Omens Tumblr Prompts [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU, Crowley needs a hug, M/M, Rediscovery fic, he lost his best friend, i like to imagine i'm good at writing it too, i love my angst with a happy ending, post-discorporation fic, soft Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 04:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19760503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Part One: When Aziraphale is discorporated, Crowley leaves London, unable to remain where the Angel wasn't; in time though, Aziraphale comes to remember and look....Part Two: When Crowley is discorporated, Aziraphale remains, and waits for him to return; it takes a while...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been revised and extended from the original post; and thus, is considerably different. You can find the original post link down below in the End Notes section. 
> 
> Enjoy the fic.  
> \- Xan

Crowley leaves on a Wednesday.

It's been... twenty years now, since Aziraphale- disappeared. 

Crowley cannot remain here. Cannot stay where Aziraphale isn't. London has been the _Angel's_ since its inception. Since Rome and Oysters and London; London with it's riding streets, its big beautiful buildings, it's crisply accented humans (who learnt that accent _from_ Aziraphale, unintentional though that might have been) has the angel's very being stamped into every brick, every blade of grass, every swooping architectural line that bring to mind an angels wings.

And Crowley cannot remain. Cannot stand this loss. It's been twenty years; twenty long years that feel twice as long as the six thousand he had with Aziraphale: because the angel was always just a demonic miracle, just a snap of long fingers away, just a flick of dark wings riding thermals away from Crowley - no matter how many kilometres that actually spanned between them. There had been an immediacy that Crowley was used to. The barest thought and there Aziraphale had been, spinning around with round, blue eyes that always shone with surprised delight to see him. Crowley always fancied he could see the angel's heart beat triple time to Crowley's sly smiles, would watch as Aziraphale would twist and turn, evading the demons likeness as though Crowley was more tempting than all the little cakes and chocolates in the world. 

Crowley hasn't seen such a reaction in twenty years.

So he leaves: he packs nothing, takes nothing with him; all responsibility for his earthly possessions shuffled aside in favour of fleeing the city that spoke of angels wings and blue eyes to him. 

And Crowley ends up in a place so far away, in a place where they have vowels that are rounded and slurring, where the consonants drag rather than clip crisply behind human teeth, where he cannot see angel wings pressed into the very architecture of the city; and there he settles into the sediment. Grows moss and lichen, unmoving, stationary in his waiting. There are no connections to _six thousand years of memories_ here. Crowley remains only haunted by the gaping hole in his chest where Aziraphale had once nested; but not by once-had-beens. 

There is no memory here of Aziraphale smiling softly across a table at him. There is no memory here of walking side by side with Aziraphale, hands almost brushing, going no where, all the time in the world to enjoy this moment and all others that stretched before them, endlessly. There is no memory of foods that Aziraphale loved, no books, no suits of tweed, no plaid bowties, no eyes that shone blue like the summer sky, no faintly rustling feathers in the quiet of a bookshop in Soho; Aziraphale announcing to all and sundry that he was comfortable in the most safe and relaxed way possible. There were no soft smiles. No curly blonde hair that wisp'd like the cotton candy clouds that drifted lazy and slow across the sky. No slightly off centre nose that was charming in its inelegance. No hands that curved about forks and knives. No voice that hummed in slow delight at yet another delicate morsel that slipped past lips and teeth to settle, melting, across a tongue well tuned to life little pleasures. 

There was none of that here, except that which Crowley carried in his chest; pulled out and dusted when darkness crept in, when dullness over took vibrancy and Crowley needed to remember. Needed Aziraphale back. Needed to remember. Needed that hope that Aziraphale would find him when the angel was ready, was back on Earth, was back, unharmed, in a little secondhand bookshop in Soho. 

Twenty years slide into thirty... and then Hell come knocking.

Crowley is chased from his enforced solitude, reminded of his duty to Hell and her damned agenda; is set on a road to tempt and sway and to take advantage of the lack of angels on Earth. Beelzebub watches him go, watches the less-than-saunter, watches the rounded sloping shoulder that hang defeated, watches Crowley try and hide his distraction - and is disgusted. 

The Serpent of Eden reduced to a weak-willed, gutless mess. Well, even messes have their uses and Hell's never really enjoyed cleanliness: that's more Heaven's thing.

Once he's on the road, travelling constantly, Crowley can pretend that this is just another extended assignment; like the one's he'd been given before the arrangement. He can pretend, can imagine, that Aziraphale is waiting for him back hom- in London. That this is just a holiday of evil-doing; that Aziraphale is not needed to thwart his adversary on earth. That, if Crowley was able to (because of course Hell won't let him return until he's done), Aziraphale would be waiting for him. Would be on his chair in the backroom, drinking hot cocoa, a smile ready and waiting to greet the serpent that would slink through his door, dusty and travel worn, and offer him, offer _Crowley_ , a nice glass of red wine from a bottle they'd been saving for a special occasion and it would be... perfect. 

So he continues, tempts without being thwarted, tempts without heart or desire to truly cause evil; tempts because he must and Hell is watching him, his work. And Crowley continues to pretend; because Crowley loves Earth, loves humanity, he does, he does, he does; but this, this hurts more than the Fall, more than Golgotha and Mesopotamia and the Spanish Inquisition. This hurts, and Crowley is so very tired of hurting.

...

..

.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, does not pretend. Does not know that he should pretend, that he should imagine a reception in London, waiting for him with an uncorked bottle of red and fine stemmed glasses on a couch in the backroom of a little secondhand bookshop in Soho...

Aziraphale who had tricked his superiors once, whose superiors had not appreciated the trickery - shades of demonic intervention that - and Uriel had enacted a spell to make Aziraphale to forget; to forget the apocalypse, the bookshop as anything but a disguise, to forget his love of humans and their little creations, to forget, most of all, a red-haired demon in dark glasses. Heaven could not afford split loyalty, could not abide an angel who, in spite of his disobedience, had not Fallen - as Lucifer once had (for far less, in Michael's mind, but then Heaven still hasn't understood God's directive, not as Aziraphale and Crowley have- had).

It's been twenty years since Aziraphale had last set foot on Earth; there have been changes, but the shop remains the same, though he cannot for the life of him bring himself to sell a book - even though that is what bookshops are meant to do. Indeed, Aziraphale keeps such irregular hours that it's a wonder that anyone can find the door unlocked. At times, Aziraphale thinks to regulate his hours, to sell a book, to obey his directive to blend in; but something always stops him. A little thread deep in his mind that has not forgotten that which Uriel would prefer him to; a little thread that tugs insistently towards a flat in Mayfair, draws him unerringly to a table at the Ritz that always seems ready to welcome him (even though Aziraphale cannot remember ever eating human food - why would he? He doesn't _need_ to eat... and yet), to a bench in Saint James' park that feels... empty.

It's been twenty years and yet Aziraphale swears something is missing. A vibration that sings unheard to his ear, that sings him stories of... someone gone. Someone absent. 

It's not that Aziraphale doesn't know _of_ Crowley, the Serpent of Eden, Demonic Adversary on Earth, tempter of humans towards Evil. 

It's just that... Aziraphale doesn't _know_ who Crowley is to him. He's forgotten. Uriel had done her job well... except, _six thousand years_ is no small stretch of time, even to an immortal ethereal being such as Aziraphale; and Aziraphale keeps bumping into ghosts. London is _his_ city. London bears the indelible mark of close to two thousand years of his meddling and fiddling and prompting and blessing and just generally mucking about the various levels of all London's life. 

It had been Aziraphale who had whispered into the first hoteliers ear about a place for travellers to stay that had then led to the creation of the Ritz.

It had been Aziraphale who had loved human foods so much that had wondered at there being a job in cooking it for large groups of people, not just something husbands and wives did for their families, and so created restaurants.

It had been Aziraphale who had longed for a safe space to talk to a friend, a place with quiet and serenity that wasn't a church because churches sit on sanctified ground and are so harmful to demons; and it had been a Lord Mayor who had been delighted by the suggestion that had led to Hyde Park and Saint James Park and Victoria Park - and so given Aziraphale a place to spend with Crowley.

Aziraphale had shaped London, spread white wings above its head and sheltered it during storms and fires and blitz's; there wasn't an inch of this city that Aziraphale did no know. There were ghosts of moments past everywhere. And Aziraphale kept tripping over them.

The bookshop hold little clues of what he's missing.

A jacket tailored within an inch of its life is slung behind a bookshop, describing narrow shoulders and long arms, is not something Aziraphale would ever wear himself. For starters, it's black in a way that seems to absorb the light; and smells faintly of sulphur and spice, and there's something about it that feels faintly of... well, evil.

Then there's a plant in the washroom. A vibrant green thing that... shivers in its pot. Alive in spite of no one caring for it in over twenty years now. Lush in a way that no plant since Eden has managed.

There are the _pairs_ of wineglasses in his cupboards; never more than two, each for a different style of wine or spirit. Just as there are bottles of wine in his basement that Aziraphale would never drink. Not the least of which, Aziraphale can't remember _ever_ drinking wine.

There's a set of keys with a number and an address. Aziraphale doesn't go, but the area code is for Mayfair... but there's nothing in Mayfair that Aziraphale needs or wants (despite a very firm, fervent part of him that tells him _yes, actually, there is_ ).

There's a copy of Eliot's poetry with sharp angular writing that slithers across the front page: _thought you'd enjoy this one, angel, I know how you love your poetry_

There are indelible little marks of a life that Aziraphale hasn't lived. Has no memory of. And it's beginning to worry him. At first, Aziraphale had thought about consulting the archangels; but something had stung, burned and frayed at the edges, at that thought. Had beat a frantic tattoo inside his mind, had warned of books burning, of a jacket lost, of a plant screaming silent death, of wine vanished and good times with it. Aziraphale had stayed paralysed, wondering where such fear had come from, such distrust. Heaven was for the good and holy - so why did it fill him with such mistrust and angry terror?

It's been thirty years since he'd been discorporated; but what are thirty years to six thousand?

Aziraphale is, at heart, a curious creature - though he does enjoy a sedentary way of living - and so he begins to... _discreetly_ inquire about. There are reasons for these odd moments of loneliness, these odd moments of turning to speak to someone who isn't there, these odd moments of expecting snide commentary at all the little human moments that occur all around him, these odd moments of... wishing someone was there, with him, side by side, until the end of the world. 

What are thirty years to six thousand? Aziraphale knows he is missing something, there is an ache in his chest that speaks of loss and sorrow and of missing something, someone, that is no longer there.

Aziraphale starts at the Ritz, he is recognised though he is sure that he has never been there before, and the Head Chef arrives with a smile that speaks of welcome and gladness for his presence; and Aziraphale turns to the empty seat beside him, going to ask what they wanted only for something heavy to sink like a stone in his belly, leaving him off kilter for _hours_ after. The Chef, a waiter at the Ritz some thirty years ago, is all bright smiles and assurances; speaks of a man with red hair and glasses, a thin bodied man who turned his entire self into Aziraphale presence...

"We took bets," the Head Chef confides with an expression that tells of sheepishness and faint regret, "on whether you two were dating; we never did work it out and then you left and so did he not long after and I'll never forget his face. Despair doesn't come close."

And Aziraphale sits and eats his lunch that tastes of ash in his mouth, because he knows that description; knows that the Chef had spoken of the demon Crowley, knows that he was reprimanded in Heaven for his conduct during the apocalypse, though never received a satisfactory explanation about precisely what he'd done wrong. Perhaps it had been this, dining at the Ritz with a demon who enjoyed food and tempting angels to Fall.

Lunch or dinner at the Ritz becomes something of a trend and Aziraphale finds that he quite loves food. Loves the little cakes drizzled in syrups, the fish, the meats, the cheeses, the fruits sliced thinly and neatly, the sandwiches, the soups, the salads, the broths, the breads; find satisfaction in sinking teeth into the flesh of human sustenance and the flavours that roll like desire over his tongue to fill his belly with warmth. Then Aziraphale had met the Sommelier, the young women who would stand at his elbow and pick him out a wine for his meal, who would deliver a bottle of the finest reds, whites, dessert sweet wines, champagnes; wines that accompanied and elevated the meal eaten to heights hitherto unknown by _this_ Aziraphale. 

This Aziraphale who balanced his greed with goodness gifted to others. Little blessings to glance out unnecessary extravagances. Little promises to alleviate the guilt, to reconcile what he knew to be true and that which he wish was better. Excuses and justifications used to soothe the trouble of his mind. Never knowing that this was a path he'd walked before. Never knowing that these were well trod thoughts. Never knowing that he was sliding down a well worn groove of six thousand years of justifications, excuses, explanations, promises to be better, do better, to be the angel he thought Heaven deserved.

Sometimes, after lunch, Aziraphale would meander down city streets and others would find him across the road, staring out over water, meeting the eyes of expectant ducks who gathered near-tamed within the gentle aura of an angel at peace. The berth the ducks gave half the bench Aziraphale never sat on was easily explained away; but the gentle call of welcome by an old woman with grey hair and weathered hands was less so.

Eyes grey as storm clouds met Aziraphale's sunny blues and a smile wreathed her face as recognition stole over her. She sat beside him, unprompted, told him a tale of working in this park for years, of serving him and his young man coffees and teas and little cakes his young man would surprise him with, of the ice creams they would buy from her. "Kept me in business, you two did," she told him in a voice that cracked like the weathered pages of an old book, "such a handsome young man," she added, "my daughter was sweet on him, him and his black skin tight clothes." Here she smiles brightly and broadly, eyes far away as she reminisces, "such a sweet man despite how he dressed. I always wondered if he had eye problems, never saw him take those black glasses off, even at night," she laughs softly. "Never did see him again when you stopped coming here. He used to sit on this bench and just stare out over the water like he'd see you walking across it towards him. Used to cry too, when he thought the park was empty. Only time he ever snapped at me was when I asked after you," she gave Aziraphale a side-long glance, patted his shoulder and stood once more, "you should find him," she told Aziraphale, as though what she suggested wasn't impossible. Then she left, back stooped, hands wizened and skin paper thin. Shuffling more than walking. 

Aziraphale watched her go, speechless and lost. An ache settled into roost behind his heart that didn't need to beat and yet did anyway. There was a physicality to his being, a permanence to his sense of self. How much of this self had been built on a relationship with a demon? How much of Aziraphale's past had been entangled with the worst sort of creature...?

Except, Crowley had never been told of as being bad or evil. Every who spoke of him did so in relation to _Aziraphale_ , as though the angel had been a humanising factor, as if Aziraphale was the sun of Crowley's universe, the gravitation pull that centred everything. 

Aziraphale sat on that bench, brioche whole and growing stale in his hands, ducks milling about his ankles, softly quacking their hunger to him; until the day grew short and night settled in and the ducks left Aziraphale for their nests beneath the willows. The water was glass-still, smooth and shining in the bright lights of the street lights. There was a question that remained, but would Aziraphale find an answer? Would Aziraphale know where else to look?

Did Aziraphale want to know more than he already did, damn himself further with revelations of six thousand years of memories just out of reach, brushing the edge of his mind and memories with there sense of familiarity; but forever out of reach? 

Aziraphale remained there, for far too long, morning dew soaking his coat and pants, downy soft hair wet ringlets against his skin, and he breathed life into his world once more.

It was time to go to Mayfair.

The building, when Aziraphale found it, was unlike most others in the area. All shining glass and chrome, a monument to the future, a spire of twisted metal growing tooth sharp from the cement. It towered, forbidding, above him. Storm dark and weighted with... potential, perhaps. Or fear of what Aziraphale might find inside. Frivolous miracles aside, Aziraphale found the demons flat with no trouble. Penthouse apartment and sparsely decorated, it resembled a mausoleum, all stone surfaces and grey scale decor. A statue stood to one side, an angel and a demon, falling - or flying - through the air as they fought an epic, eternal battle of good and evil. 

"Ostentatious," Aziraphale murmurs with fondness bleeding thickly through the four syllables. 

Aziraphale turns and stares at another statue, pitted grey stone, an eagle if he's not mistaken; and a flash of heat, of stone crumbling, of glass shattering, and then bitter realisation, the books, the books, he forgot the books and then, his belly swooped. Aziraphale blinks breath short, memory burning for the sight of that statue, pressed into the corner, as if it didn't matter at all; and yet something told Aziraphale that it was _very_ important indeed. He reached out, touched the stone, and felt something like heartbreak in his chest, his eyes stinging for missing someone desperately. 

Aziraphale baulks, not ready and is driven from the first room into the second and... terror seeps from the walls as row upon row of planters line the walls.

For a moment, Aziraphale swears he's back in Eden, moist air clinging to his skin, heat trapped between the layers of his clothes, and bright yellow light streaming from specialised lights that are... unlit and cold and there's nothing here. Aziraphale turns to the doorway, expecting a long tin black figure to be leaning indolently against the steel frame and feels something inside him plunge unpleasantly into his toes when there's no one there. He could imagine it. Could pretend, if he wanted, but it's not the same. There is just emptiness and aching loss. 

That loss and heartache draws Aziraphale in deeper, sends him stumbling past a room with a throne and an answering machine with a blinking red light; towards a room at the back and there... there, a bed, a closet, a wardrobe, and a single bookshelf. The bed is made. Thick heavy silks and linens garb it in red and black, Aziraphale touches the comforter softly and has a flash of... warmth, comfort. A vague sense of love and belonging long since faded and worn down by absence. Crowley had loved sleeping here, had felt safe; had enjoyed it. The cupboards and wardrobe, when Aziraphale checks, are empty. Bare and dusty in a way that tells of the occupant long since gone.

The kitchen and living room are no different. Sleek and ultra modern in comparison to Aziraphale's own space, there is nonetheless a sense of waiting for return about this place. The long slow wait for the owner to return. For life to be returned among these grey walls. For movement, for sounds contained, for everything that made a house a home. 

Aziraphale rests his hands on the counter thick with dust and stares at the envelope that sits there, innocuously addressed to him. It too had been waiting. The ink that slides his name across the front faded and discoloured pale. Aziraphale tucks the letter in his jacket; there are no more secrets to be learned here.

Aziraphale returns to Soho. 

There he sits in his backroom and holds the letter on his lap, reads the letters that speak his name in old ink over and over and over again.

Aziraphale doesn't read the letter until he's three wineglasses down and a week later; and then he wishes he hadn't. Angels can feel love and Crowley's letter to Aziraphale bled and leaked that love every which way, the ink smudged from tears shed for missing him, the signature more human than demonic, speaking the preferred name but not his real one. Aziraphale eventually falls unconscious, brought on by too much wine and not enough ability to parse more than a message of fondness and adoration from a letter than should rightly tell of hatred and loathing. Inside his mind beats a confused drum that repeats: _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley..._

_Wherefore art thou, Crowley?_

When morning dawns, it does so upon an empty bookshop in Soho. 

Aziraphale leaves London, leaves England, to look for that which he hurts for missing, to find that which he fears he might not survive - for he seeks a demon, his most ancient and hereditary enemy; and yet, Aziraphale cannot imagine life not answering that ache, living without knowing, breathing air that he knows that Crowley breathes and yet does so, unknowing that the angel is home once more... 

_Find me when you return_ Crowley had bade him, the words shaky on the paper, and so Aziraphale would do as the demon asked, would find him, would reassure him that Aziraphale was here... but, oh, he didn't remember. Did not know Crowley as Crowley knew him. 

But what are thirty years to six thousand?

To eternity ever after?

Can Aziraphale not relearn that which Crowley unspoke in his letter, that knowledge that had been buried not within words but within the feelings the demon splashed more permanently than ink across the page?

Aziraphale travels, on foot, by train, by boat. Finds people who know of whom he speaks, who send him onwards, who tell stories of devilry and miracle both; who speak of a being all long limbed in black with hair like fire and eyes forever hidden behind dark glasses. Aziraphale followed, far behind, but steadily catching up.

As he travels, Aziraphale enacts Heaven's charter, a balance to ensure his superiors do not look to closely at what he does. Commendations come from Gabriel and Uriel both, neither suspecting that Aziraphale's travels mirrored Crowley's own, that he retraced demonic steps, travelled well worn paths that led him through the ages.

Flashes of memory picked up in Iran and Iraq, that which had been Mesopotamia; ghosts found in Rome and Barcelona; a mirage tripped over in France while hunting for crepes, the Bastille dark in the distance.

As Aziraphale travels in Crowley’s wake, he learns more of the Serpent than he thought possible. Of his fondness for red wines and dark spirits. Of his ineffable nature. Of his equal fondness for small children, who had apparently followed him around like ducklings, taking the sweets he slipped them and lessons he handed out like warnings with equal measure of adoration. Crowley, who still wore dark sleek suits. Crowley, who’d once been observed with his wings out by an old grandmother, wrapping them around the young couple he’d pulled out of a burning building in Aziraphale’s name.

Of the Demon who caused chaos and destruction like it was nothing… but never around innocents. 

It’s confusing and oddly encouraging, and Aziraphale is unprepared when he finally catches up to the Serpent nearly fifty years since disincorporating, nearly thirty since returning to Earth; and the slight of him, tall and slender in a market place, one of the few refuges of no technology, bartering over some sweet treat or other, his smile wide and eyes hidden behind round dark glasses…

Well, it’s like coming home.

There's something soft and sweet melting in his belly and there's a smile on his face, his wings want to arch over head, as if welcoming Crowley into his embrace; but the thing is though, Aziraphale, despite the years, the decades following Crowley around, of learning of him, of revisiting old haunts and places he vaguely recognises despite the centuries of wear, tear, and change, he doesn’t really remember Crowley. Oh, sure he recognises parts of him, of his nature, of his smile, of his gleaming eyes hidden behind dark glasses; but in truth, the recognition is more in the This Is My Hellish Adversary on Earth way, not as in This Is My Long Lost Best Friend.

So when Aziraphale walks up to the demon in that crowded market place, he holds out his hand, smiles sweetly in the face of disbelief that belies the hope growing in the corners of Crowley's fine lipped mouth, and says: “Crowley, I presume?”

Oh, oh, the agony and devastation that crumples Crowley’s face because there’s no real fond recognition in Aziraphale’s face as he looks on him, no remembrance of the years of the Arrangement, no sly little tilt of the mouth at their years as Godfathers-to-Warlock-and-then-Adam-and-How-They-Prevented-the-Apocalypse-That-Followed and Crowley almost wishes that Aziraphale had never found him again except… except he’s glad all the same because this is _his_ angel, if not the angel _he_ remembers; and sure memories are fickle things and maybe Aziraphale will remember, or maybe he won’t, but he’s here now in front of Crowley, smiling in expectance, as though being introduced for the first time… and Crowley’s helpless in the face of, well, _that face_ \- always has been, in all honesty.

And so,

He smiles, sleek and sly, leans forwards, and grips Aziraphale’s hand like the other being’s making a deal with the Devil, and says in reply, “hello, Angel,”

And Aziraphale’s smile falters because there’s something familiar about that smile, that tone, that slanted posture, and he laughs nervous, a giggle, and leans back just a little, because this was unexpected and there’s something heavy and light in his chest and Crowley’s releasing his hand, stepping back, and Aziraphale tilts his head up to look at the sky, wondering if its going to rain

And Crowley, who knows why Aziraphale remembers the raindrops and the extended wing sheltering another being, steps back, his head tilted in invitation, “can I tempt you to a spot of lunch, Angel?” he asks him with a wicked grin, because this is familiar ground, this is their dance, their little give and take that Crowley’s spent nearly fifty years missing; but what is fifty years to six thousand?

And Aziraphale? Aziraphale smiles, fingers twitching as though he holds a knife and fork already, and says: “how about crepes?”


	2. (i'll always) keep the light on for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale knows, like the sun rises in the east, like the moon returns the tide, like light follows the dark, that Crowley will always, always return to him; the demon has been the instigator of their relationship, the dealer of all their better cards, the one who gravitates to Aziraphale as though the angel is Crowley's lodestone. So when Crowley disappears back to Hell, Aziraphale waits for him to come home. 
> 
> Because where else would Crowley end up? But back in Aziraphale's arms.

Crowley disappeared on a Wednesday.

Aziraphale knows that Crowley received a summons from Beelzebub a few short weeks ago: he also knows that Crowley had to return Down Below lest he be (less-discorporated and more-actually-)dead, because of some business that Crowley couldn't - or perhaps wouldn't - tell him; and yet Azirphale also knows enough about his friends relationship with his superiors to understand that Crowley wasn't happy _at all_ to be heading back to Hell. There had been dire muttering in between instructions for his plants and the exchange of keys to the Mayfair flat and the Bentley - which would be left outside Aziraphale's bookshop and Aziraphale was _never ever_ to drive. Aziraphale had made solemn promises to the effect of watering the plants at least once a day, not letting them forget Crowley's expectations, and pretending that he even knew enough about cars to drive them - so making the promise to never drive the Bentley that much more effective. Crowley had pinned him with a slant eyed glare over the top of his sunglasses and Aziraphale had given the demon a tight smile of reassurance, pretending that this wasn't entirely an awful state of affairs. They'd meant to go to the Ritz for lunch the day after but that wouldn't be happening; Aziraphale had come to realise that he quite disliked dining alone these days.

It's strange at first, not entirely peaceful, but certainly less disruptive than having a demon swaggering into your bookstore every ten minutes yelling about a new restaurant that they had to try (that Crowley never ate at), a new vineyard he'd discovered and happened to have a bottle or two of wine from (which Crowley _did_ partake in), or something else that had caught ahold of Crowley's ever mercurial moods and landed them both in situations at odds with what they were both supposed to be doing and yet somehow having far more fun because of it. Aziraphale, if pressed and more than a bit tipsy, would admit to missing the demon the minute Crowley sauntered out his front door, well before the Bentley pulls away from the curb (and if completely sloshed, Aziraphale _might_ admit that this time is worse because _the Bentley is still there_ , right there, on the curb; as though Crowley never left). 

Aziraphale settles into something of a rhythm, Crowley's absence akin to a body part missing, leaving Aziraphale unbalanced and off kilter; but this isn't the first time Crowley's gone away and there were whole centuries where Aziraphale hadn't seen Crowley before the 20th century, and sure, times and their behaviours towards each other had changed, but its fine. It is. Truly. 

Each day, Aziraphale opens his shop, his shelves stacked with some newer, modern releases that Adam had gifted him and then Anathema and Newt, on one of their visits to see he and Crowley, had recommended; and quite without meaning to, Aziraphale becomes something of an seller of independent releases, of small time authors books. Of subjects which don't normally gain traction within the mainstream and yet bring all manner of queer and colourful people into his store, enlivening it with their laughter and delight at finding something which would never be seen on the shelves of a Waterstones or Foyles. Of course, he keeps his hours as irregular as he always has, but Aziraphale's come to recognise that such things are as part of the fun for the hipster youth of today as they had been an inconvenience for the generations prior. 

Anathema comes to visit him regularly these days; because while Newt seems ready to settle into the comfort of middle age, sedimenting into an accounting job in Tadfield that doesn't require him to use computers at all, Anathema is still learning her place in a world where she's her own person and not a descendant of a woman three hundred years past. Aziraphale doesn't tell her of the manuscript he has in his backroom, a gift from Agnes Nutter that had arrived quite at random on his front door step some months ago. Anathema has her own bookshop in Tadfield these days, a little sister place to Aziraphale's own, and Aziraphale helps her with inventory and collecting and business smalls like taxes and stationary ordering and paying her bills on time. Some days, the Them and Adam join Anathema on her trips over; and Aziraphale has to keep an eye on Pepper whenever they do. He finds her too precocious for her own good and Aziraphale's had a number of conversations with Pepper, teaching her moderation and leniency when her moral fibre demands righteous change with immediacy. Some things, only age and good council will teach you, and Aziraphale knows that Pepper will make a fabulous leader - if she ever learns to moderate her fiery rhetoric: it hadn't been for nothing that Pepper had gone head to head with war. 

It's whenever the children - who are less and less children with every visit - come by that Aziraphale finds himself counting time in measures of growth spurts, changing faces, and eyes that grow a little less naïve and bright with every visit. It's been five years and Aziraphale finds himself looking up at Adam these days, the young man - for he is very much not a boy any longer - all lanky lines and overlarge hands and feet that he's yet to properly grow into. Pepper too, meets Aziraphale's eyes these days with a confidence that inspires as much as it aches his chest to see. Crowley's missing the best years of this century and Aziraphale hates Hell for taking that from the demon (and him).

Aziraphale tries to keep the demons memory alive, tries to encourage Wensleydale into stepping out of his comfort zone, tries to tempt Brian into trouble that Crowley would applaud him for, tries to do things how the demon would - but all it does it make his heart ache for missing Crowley and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

In the end, as the decade comes to a close, it becomes easier to write Crowley a letter to let him know that his plats are at Aziraphale's flat now; it becomes harder, because Shadwell drops by with his negativity and sour regard for the lanky demon and tries to convince Aziraphale that Crowley is never coming back.

It becomes hard too, as long time customers, who remember Crowley and his swagger and his black sunglasses, who match the sleek black Bentley out the front with the man many of them consider to be Aziraphale's husband, begin to ask where Crowley is; and as the time stretches longer and longer in human eyes, begin to get pitying expressions on their faces. Some wonder none too quietly if Aziraphale's been left for someone younger, if Aziraphale's chased Crowley away for being fussy and snotty and out of fashion by nearly two hundred years, if Crowley was dead - or worse. 

Someone calls the police one day, tries to file a missing persons report on behalf of Aziraphale and Aziraphale spends three weeks first defending Crowley's coming back and then six months clearing himself of a murder he definitely didn't commit. Crowley would come back; Crowley _always_ came back. Like a cork on the tide, like a message in a bottle, like the dawn that rose in the east every morning: without fail, Crowley would return to him and they would continue as they ever had. Aziraphale knew this like he knew that God loved all creatures. 

Ten years is nothing for six thousand; not that humans know this, for ten years to them is a great span of time and pity breeds well where sorrow for others lives, and Aziraphale looks for all to see like a jilted lover telling himself lies even as he picks up the pieces of his ruined life. Indeed, Aziraphale miracles more than a few well-meaning people from his shop in a snit - because _Crowley's not like that_ , their relationships not at all like that; and Crowley would never leave him. Would always return. He was Crowley, returning to Azirpahle and showing up at inopportune moments to pull Aziraphale's wing-feathers from a fire was what Crowley _did._

So, Aziraphale continues as he ever has, taking comfort in familiarity and routine. Waiting for Crowley to return. Because Aziraphale cannot imagine a world in which Crowley didn't return. Crowley always came back. That was an immutable fact of Aziraphale's life. Time ticks onwards: the weather and the days never really change, technology rolls around and morphs into different shapes but Aziraphale’s never really paid attention to that sort of thing and he still pops over to Crowley’s flat to polish the Bentley that Adam so kindly restored to him and to water the plants that seemed to have lost some of their expectant fear at their masters return (the plants quite like Mister Aziraphale, for he is kind and gentle and while he scolds them, he’s far more likely to slip them extra fertiliser in praise for their greenery than to eviscerate them for their mistakes - more than one plant has been guilty of wishing that Master Crowley would never return).

Though, Azirpahle admits to himself as he looks out the window of his bookshop into the hustle and bustle of Soho life, this time is by far the longest that Crowley hasn't checked in. After the church bombing, Crowley had always made a habit of stopping by at least every five years; but really, Azirpahale soothes himself, ten years aren't so different to five and Crowley will return. He knows this. He knows this.

 _He knows this._

...

..

.

Crowley, when he returns two decades after disappearing, does so a great sight thinner and more shadowed about the eyes than he had appeared before. Oh certainly his Earthly body remains the same and there’s still that patch of scales beneath one ear and another travelling the length of his spine, and he still wears dark glasses, darker clothes, and black snake-skin boots that click as he saunters down the pavement; but it would be a funny old place if Hell started trusting its demons and while Heaven favours order over chaos, it is the nature of Hell to encourage chaos and destabilisation.

Which is precisely why Crowley is deposited in a country other than England, his accent remains much the same as it always had been, but then, Hell's dumped him in an enclave of ex-pats and so it fits in with his new neighbours just fine and while he recognises no one, or any of the places he now calls home, that's not such an odd thing at all. Crowley is, after all, an immortal occult being - he is quite used to finding himself in seemingly familiar spaces where nothing he once recognised remains and twenty years, to a human, is such a long period of time. It's not unsurprising that Crowley recognises nothing around him, so he does't question it. Besides, humanity remains ever as they had been: oh-so-easy to tempt into doing the wrong thing.

Crowley keeps his head down, bites his forked tongue when things just don't match up, casts his eyes aside when he thinks he maybe recognises something but well, Beelzebub and Dagon had been less than pleased with him and Hastur had taken particular pleasure in his re-education; so Crowley keeps mum about it all. Once upon a time, Crowley had, in his own terms, sauntered vaguely downwards for asking questions - or perhaps the right questions, it's not as though he'd received answers for his curiosity - but things feel so odd lately, so mismatched, so like he's missing something _important_ : like a limb or perhaps an organ, but every double check and recheck yields noting and Crowley's _at a loss_. 

He knows he's missing something. Knows it's something big. But being flung into space at a million miles an hour to land in a pool of burning sulphur leaves something of a mark on a person and Crowley’s experiences have shaved a large bit of trust, bravery, and faith from his character. And the sheer vindictiveness of his last visit to Hell had left an indelible mark upon his mind. Whatever this missing thing was, Crowley knew that the Dark Council wanted him to steer clear of it. Perhaps it was dangerous - perhaps Crowley had been discorporated and ended up in Hell that time not because he chose to walk in, but because he'd died. 

In any case, Crowley grits his teeth, puts down roots, and tries... _not to think about it._

It's not hard, living here, at first. Dagon had plucked up his old Mayfair flat and dumped it here, above an old bakery that woke him up at ridiculous hours of the morning with the clatter of ancient machines and the yell of apprentices who really hate waking up before three a.m. as much as Crowley does. The flat is less a home and more a space to lay his head down at the end of the day: there is a kitchen that stocks more wine than it does food, an office with a direct line to Hell - which Crowley avoids as best he can -, a parlour which houses a number of newly terrified plants that… he swears are bigger than they used to be (but it's been twenty years and some change, of course they're bigger, don't question it, don't question it), and a bedroom that smells faintly like burnt sugar, old books, and lanolin… which is nothing much like what Crowley smells like at all, or any demon he’s known - although, it’s mostly worn away within a few months and Crowley’s determined to do right this time and not ask questions. Which is a weird feeling in and of itself as Crowley vaguely remembers being quite the rebel once but Hell hadn’t approved and they were not merciful and Crowley can remember heat and burning and acid rain and the way his human flesh had dissolved from his scales until he was left strung out and gasping in a way that snakes were never meant to and the pain. Satan, help him, the pain. Crowley's mind shies from remembering and he throws himself once more into his temptations and bad deeds. 

Crowley hasn’t dreamed since returning, mostly because he dares not sleep most nights. Nightmares are for humans, what demons have is far, far worse.

Crowley continues like this is all normal, despite turning at times to someone who’s never there, to share something wicked or devious he’s thought of, waiting for the scolding and mock-disapproval that will never come and… something aches in him as he does. It’s like he’s ripped his wings off, that feeling of someone that should be there not being there. Had Crowley been different, a little more brave, a lot more trusting, he might have packed up and gone hunting for the source of his discomfort. It’s been ten years after all, hardly an insignificant amount of time, but really, what are ten years to six thousand? And so Crowley does nothing: can do nothing. Every time he goes about thinking of maybe doing something, he feels the memory of acid dripping across his shoulders and he doubles down, hunches over, bites back his whimpers and hurries on. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't question that feeling and don't think about it. Crowley clings to the stability he's found, in not asking, in not doing, of simply existing: 

But stability is a fiction told to people who fear the chaos that comes with time: all things change and nothing ever stays the same though the opposite can also true and it is down towards the south on one of his few business trips that come with the territory of being Hell’s Emissary on Earth, that Crowley ends up meeting a human who he doesn’t recognise, _but who recognises him_ and Crowley’s not really in the business of being familiar with humans, though he grants that this human is tenacious. 

The human is hardly young, wears thick black rectangular eyeglasses and there's something in the set of her mouth that has Crowley's teeth on edge. There's a fire in those dark eyes as she calls his name, cuts across four lanes of traffic, calls his name again, her heels clicking sharp and hard on the pavement.

She calls his name and Crowley walks faster.

She calls his name and Crowley ducks down a side street.

She calls his name and Crowley evades her with dogged determination, because there's a feeling pressed to the wide stretch of skin that would be bracketed by his wings had they been loose, that tells him louder than words that he wants nothing to do with this woman, this human, this creature dressed in long skirts, narrow boots, and a wide brimmed hat set upon a waterfall of tightly made up curls that spill long and dark down shoulders that are no so much narrow as tightly contained within the thin fabric of her blouse.

“Crowley!" She calls his name again behind him, voice bouncing off tall brick walls, off glass and chrome, off light posts and trees confined to square foot plots of hard packed brown dirt and gravel and Crowley grits his teeth, all but running by this point.

"Crowley!” She calls his name again but Crowley's spotted a bar, has cut across the road, and is pressing his long thin body through the narrow doorway gap.

The human's hardly slow however, and her dainty yet strong hand is gripped tight about his upper arm, steering him from where he'd been making his way to the back and over to a rickety round table sticky with old beer and sweat. Crowley's lips curl as he sits, slouches, slopes into the chair and evades her slant eyed look that peers at him through thick lensed glasses, her lips a thin line of confused disapproval.

"Crowley," she begins and he doesn't know _how_ she recognises him, doesn't want to know how she recognises him, thinks it's maybe to do with that ache pressed in tight and high under his breast bone and he presses his body down further into his seat until his arse is all but hanging off the edge of his chair. "Crowley," her voice is sharper now, cutting through the fugue of worry, of nervousness, of lip biting worry that has overwhelmed him. "What are you doing in Florida?"

Crowley tilts his head away, he doesn't owe her answers, he doesn't know her, but as she peppers him with questions, makes snide comments about how thin he looks, about his glasses and fashion and boots, side eyes his hair that's longer than he remembers it being for a long time, looks at his bloody ragged nails, and Crowley crumbles. There's something about her persistence, something about the look in her eyes that screams of compassion and weird goodness that would suit an angel if all angels weren't unimaginative dicks. Crowley breathes in deep, shrugs a shoulder, and meets her gaze for the first time in the half hour they've been sitting there.

Anathema, she introduces herself, skin darkened from warm sunshine and a life well lived out of door, is unlike anyone Crowley's ever met when it comes to humans. "I'm an occultist," Anathema tells him, explaining that weird kindness, when they get into talking about what they do, Crowley's own "bit of this, bit of that," draws a faint smile to her lips and she reaches across the table to touch his hand, Crowley stares at it for long moments until Anathema redraws it to her side. 

"Why haven't you come home?" Anathema asks him not long after the suns set and they've relocated to a restaurant that Crowley knows of that does a very good lobster, not that he eats often. Sometimes he just likes to sit and watch the humans eat - he's never really been able to figure out why. "It's been thirty years, nearly," Anathema is telling him, taking a sip of her crisp white wine, jawbone sharp beneath her high cheekbones. "We've missed you," she adds, like such sentiment is nothing to express.

Crowley cuts a slit eyed glare at her over the top of his sunglasses, "who's we?" he asks, elbows propped on the table between them, leaving forwards as if Anathema speaks the most interesting things he's ever heard. Which, for a human, isn't far from the truth; in any case, curiosity has ever been Crowley's undoing and there's a hopeful light beneath his breast that radiates warmth and possibility, outweighing the pressure that feels brick heavy with guilt and fear across his shoulders. If any of the Dark Council knew... Crowley takes a long drink of his red and refocusses on Anathema, who is smiling sweetly at him, lips shining with grease and fat, pleasure at a good meal lighting her up.

"Myself, Adam - who's getting married next month, Newt, my husband of thirty years," here Anathema seems to struggle, sorrow tainting her features as though a dark cloud passing before the sun, "and - _Aziraphale_ ," she adds so softly that at first Crowley thinks he's misheard.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley asks, brow puckering in confusion.

Anathema's mouth opens slightly, pain creasing about her eyes, "Aziraphale? Remember?" She prompts him gently, voice aching with something unspoken, "angel of the Eastern Gate? Eden, remember?"

Crowley presses his lips together, drawing back into his seat and shaking his head faintly, "don't know him; well," Crowley amended, "not personally. I know _of_ him of course." Crowley's lips quirked into a sharp smirk, " _the enemy_ ," he says, pointed eyeteeth glistening like snake fangs behind the velvet sheathe of pale lips.

There's a peculiar kind of sorrow then, that dips the corners of Anathema's mouth, creases her brow, and shines her eyes to polished glass, glistening wetly. The 'oh' she makes is soundless, plush lips curving voiceless air into an unheard word of quiet devastation. "Crowley," Anathema trembles, hands setting down cutlery that tremors lyric-less song from the fine china plate her meal was presented on, "Crowley," she repeats his name aching soft as though she wished to reach across the void of space between them, to touch his face, to embrace him tight and hold him still, to pour that sad disquiet into the crease where his neck meets his shoulders, as though she could make him understand the years of absence that web invisible across a doorway he dared not step through. "Crowley, do you remember nothing of us?" and Crowley feels as though this is less a question about Anathema's loss, and more a fear for something far greater.

"I've never seen you before in my life," Crowley tells her, he admits, he breathes confession into the breadth of air that spans betwixt them, hollow and bare. It's not the answer that she was looking for, or perhaps it is, because the sorrow that curves her mouth now deepens into despair, Anathema's eyes are pressed closed, as if by shutting out the world around her, of Crowley's face that is blank of any emotion that connects him to her, Anathema might be able to turn back time to thirty years before when Crowley knew her, knew Newt, knew Adam... _knew Aziraphale_

Aziraphale who remained in London, in Soho, waiting Crowley's return with an ever present smile that speaks of boundless, unshaken faith in the demon that now sits across from her, a demon who remembers nothing of six thousand years of friendship (and more).

"I-" Anathema's voice shakes as she stands, chair scraping mercilessly across hardwood floors, the sound gratingly loud in the relative quietude of the restaurant around them. Swaying to a beat that none bar she could hear, a beat mirrored in the thundering of her pulse in her ears, Anathema stared down at Crowley, his expression bemused by her sudden movement, one hand pressed to the tablecloth before him, and Anathema closed her eyes again once more, something rising and choking and suffocating her with ever desperate breath she took. "I have to go," she tells Crowley in a shattered exhale of emotion

And then she's gone.

Crowley sits at the table, confusion and worry rising like a tide in his chest, knows that his brow is a wrinkle of disquiet as he stares after Anathema, the thundering of her boots loud in his ears even though the girl, woman, human is long since gone. Crowley waves down the maitre de, pays his and her bill, and leaves the restaurant more discombobulated than when he'd arrived. 

With little else to do, if he wishes to remain as he had these past ten- no, twelve or more years, then Crowley can't ask questions. Hell checks in, reminds Crowley of his task, his reason for being, and Crowley finds himself on the road more often than not. Long legs casting longer shadows as he strides across hours, days, months, until it's been a year maybe more since Anathema's appearance and Crowley had quite forgotten her peppered questions and his own discomforted answers that had sent her into a tailspin of grief and loss and sorrow. 

It was dark and stormy, the city a slate grey smear above his head, when the figure in beige appeared in his corner-eye. Though, to Crowley's mind, they had never met, there is something immense and terrifying about angels, they encompass areas that most humans would consider to be impossible, and though the Angel of the Eastern Gate was but a principality, he was nonetheless large beyond all scale easily measured by humanity. Harmless he stood on that city street, wings tucked away, hands clasped before his belly - rounded by centuries of indulgence - and a gently welcoming face that was creased into a bright smile and haloed by riotous white blonde curls. 

Crowley stood, paused mid-step, and stared. Dickey bowtie or no, there was no mistaking him for what he was: an angel. Moreover, an angel who had hunted Crowley down and now stood at the far end of the neat grey street, unassuming yet attentive. Crowley's wings unfurled from the minimal space where he kept them folded up and tucked away most of the time, and they arched large and dark and glistening as though wet with some kind of occult rot and for a moment Crowley's true visage poked through, the hellish eyes, the sharpened teeth, the thick black claws that tipped each finger of his hands; the angel took a step back, surprise wreathing his face, as if he'd come here expecting a different welcome, come here expecting something other than Crowley's flight/fight response.

Crowley beat his wings...

A cry was ripped from the lips of the angel, his hand outstretched as if to catch Crowley...

Space enfolded Crowley, blackness consuming him whole...

And he emerged... elsewhere

Crowley stood breathless and waiting in a neighbouring country, felt with his senses the vibrancy and light that heralded the angel's presence, and beat his wings once more when he felt the angel come closer.

For years it went like that, Crowley evading, fear painting his bones sickly yellow, and the angel hunting him down, crying his name in hope that turned to grief and when defeat soaked those once-glad tones, Crowley heard the briefest, quietest apology that rang like a knell within his mind before he landed hard in a park.

The angel never appeared again. That bright light presence settled on the other side of the world and Crowley steered clear, moving only when he felt the angel travel, but if the angel travelled, it was never for far or for long and Crowley settled quiescent into his new role. He had quite forgotten the immensity of angels, the enveloping bright light feeling of their being pressing up against his black hole presence, like acid stripping him away, reshaping him into something... other. 

Crowley moved on, never returning to America, never staying in the same country twice within the same year, constantly roving, moving, fearing that death borne upon white wings followed in his wake; Crowley in particular fled that feeling of comfort and home that nipped at his heels, melting that frozen place in his chest, when he caught sight of white curls and sparkling blue eyes. Crowley was a demon, demons had no home; not even Hell could be classed as such. Crowley knew better than to hunt the angel down, he knew what it was that angels did to demons, knew what would happen to him if the Dark council ever caught him fraternising with the enemy - even if only for moments, looking for the answers to the questions that worried like a dog at a bone deep within his mind. 

Time ticked onwards and Crowley pays as little attention to his adversary as possible and thirty years blends into thirty and then forty; but Crowley's well over six thousand at this point and hardly cares whatsoever about times passage. He loves his life, loves the constant change that humanities' wrought upon this world they've been given. The sun shines, rain falls, clouds drift across the boundless sky - nothing truly changes. Not really. It all window dressing in the end and Crowley adores it, pretends he doesn't, but absolutely does. Couldn't imagine any other life but this.

It's a passing remark that does it, a comment from a lowly demon that Crowley trips over during one of his infrequent trips to Hell, a muttering that ends up dragging Crowley to check out London and the masterpiece of the M25 - Hell's Greatest Achievement; and Crowley stands on an overpass, leaning on a brick wall, smirking down at the chocker-block lanes of traffic that drift a smog of pollution and low-grade evil upwards, wreathing his slight form in the miasma. But there's only so much time you can spend watching cars practically parked on a motorway and eventually Crowley gets itchy feet and starts wandering around.

The angels not here, the bright white presence of his being is shining a thousand k's away, humming happy at whatever it is that causes angels to hum happily. Crowley ostensibly tells himself that he _doesn't care_ never mind how curious he is and besides, London is rarely empty of the angel's presence. It makes sense to take advantage of it while he can. It's been some fifty or more years since he'd arrived back on earth... and it’s like there are ghosts _everywhere_. Crowley knows a haunting when he sees one, feels one, and while he’s not one for practicing curiosity by nature, Hell had more than beaten that out of him even after the bits and pieces that had been left after his Fall, even Crowley knows to listen to his instincts when they howl at him as though he’s stupid, as if he's missing something; and that frigid piece of him, that's buried deep and glacial in his chest, is aching fit to burst. It's painful enough that Crowley finds himself rubbing at his sternum, trying to soothe something that refuses to be soothed...

The ghosts, shadows that they are, drag him all over the city. Chase his tail. Nip at his heels. Crowley arrives, out of breath and a little wild eyed, first at an ancient looking flat in Mayfair. Hyde park's across the street and a long wiggly stretch of water where ducks and swans bask in the late autumn sun is called the Serpentine by a crowd of passing Japanese tourists, their chatter far more cheerful than the feeling that Crowley wears, heavy like a thick cloak, upon his shoulders. The flat remains unoccupied, empty, and none know who the owner is or if the buildings for sale... the counters are clean, shining in the dim light that streams through the dusty windows. As though the owner knows how to clean, is precise about cleaning, but forgets that windows require washing as well... There's a room off to the side, a solarium Crowley knows it to be, filled to the brim with potted plants that rival his own back in America - though these are far less scared, are preening with pride at their own glory, and Crowley lets out a sinuous hiss that drags like scales over stone, and a shiver of fear rustles through verdant leaves. 

Crowley spins, turning to a ghost in the doorway, an excuse ready made on his lips only to falter: there's no one there. Hasn't been in years. Swaying off kilter, aching soul deep, Crowley presses in deeper to the flats rooms; past the kitchen, past the lounge, past an office that holds a single desk, a lamp unplugged, and a gaudy red and gold throne... Crowley eyeballs the chair for a long second, his ears burning unexpectedly as if with embarrassment, memory of someone chiding his decorating tastes tickling the back of his mind... but still he remains alone. The bedroom is cavernous, gaping wide like a great maw, hungry for deathful flesh practicing for oblivion. There's a bookcase in the corner, an old worn thing that seems out of place in the preciseness that is this Mayfair flat, and a chair beside the bed. Hulking and leather, stitched with dark thread and overstuffed until bursting, it looked like it might swallow him whole, slide his long thin bones down the sides until he's devoured and consumed. Here it smells less like absentia and more of... burnt sugar, old books, and lanolin. Crowley breathes in deep, dragging the scent deep and burning into aching lungs and he rubs at his chest.

Cowed, the demon steps backwards, mind clanging with warning, warning, warning; remember me, remember me, remember me... Crowleyyyyyy...

He flees.

Boots slapping stone floors.

He flees.

Coat snapping in the wind.

He flees.

Crowley. Crowley. Crowley.

Sunlight washes over him, heart rabbiting in his chest, hard and fast. Crowley takes a steadying breath, straightening his jacket and cuffs. Stepping forth, Crowley saunters across the springy green grass; this isn't Mayfair, nor Hyde Park. The water is less brown, broader, and clouds scud across the ponds surface, chasing ducks that quack for bread, begging all humans that take a moments rest upon the benches here. Crowley sinks onto the faded, chipped wood, and stretches long legs out before him. Crowley miracles up some bread and pegs it at a haughty looking drake on the edge of the flock. There's a squawk as the bird is capsized and Crowley flinches, the movement of no one beside him a chiding presence, and Crowley grudgingly rights the displeased drake to the righteous approval of the ghost that haunts him. 

"Forgot myself," Crowley mutters darkly, though he's not entirely sure why.

The light begins to fade and Crowley considers food, considers a glass of wine, but nothing draws him on, nothing really tickles his fancy and he sits on the bench and watches the ducks until night dews the grass beneath his feet and the trees overhead. A warmth flares to the East and Crowley stands, water evaporating as he makes his way from the park towards that bright white. All around him, London’s busy streets seem to sing with repressed memories, memories that he swears all related back to eyes bluer than the sky and curly blonde hair - except such a description could only be the Angel and, well, Crowley’s a Demon and Angels and Demons are hereditary enemies. Crowley doesn't know what to make of it but he thinks, if he lets himself to look, he might find the answers to the questions he's been internalising. Crowley's never _really_ understood what was so wrong with asking questions, but then, that's always been a fault of his, not knowing. Get's you into trouble, not knowing things. 

It's to these thoughts, with his feet on autopilot, and his brain otherwise engaged as he muddles through the confusion wrought by hours of chasing ghosts and barely-there memories, that Crowley shoves the door to an antique bookshop open without a care for the fact that it was locked.

Despite the darkness of the grimy windows, the space is nonetheless warm and welcoming. Love for this place radiating like the sun from every single inch. Books were pile haphazardly everywhere. Stacked upon shelves, clustered on tables, piled in corners. The lights were on, golden and bright, and Crowley had the strangest feeling of coming home. Movement had Crowley turning his face to where the backroom must be located - though he had no idea why he knew that - and Crowley felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re closed,” a lightly masculine voice called out, well bred with clipped consonants and tight articulation, and the angel, Aziraphale, rounded the corner from the back, already speaking again, “I’m terribly sorry, but you’ll have to come back tomorr-” and the words faded away as the Angel’s face morphed into an expression of soft surprise and joyous welcome, “Crowley?” he breathed

Crowley stared at the angel who held a glass of red wine in one perfectly manicured hand and an ancient tome in another, his blue eyes slightly glassy with an emotion that Crowley couldn't, or didn't want to, read; there was a wide smile stretching those pale pink lips in genuine delight and Crowley's own answering smirk broadened in response. “You’re the angel,” Crowley states the obvious, still slightly shocked that his feet would, or even could, bring him here, and his expression twisted, strange sorrow swallowing him whole, “sorry, I meant to be going home…” Crowley trailed off as a shuddering of indrawn breath drew his attention back to the angel, to Aziraphale, and Crowley ached to see his face _but_ _didn't know why ~~and it was killing him~~_.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale told him with a shaky smile and fresh grief in his eyes, “you _are_ home,” and the angel set the book down on a nearby table and beckoned Crowley deeper into his bookshop, “we have some catching up to do.”

And Crowley, - who has been on Earth this time for fifty years maybe less, follows the angel because it feels right; and well, as Crowley had said, he had meant to be going home but what are fifty years to six thousand? - follows the angel into the backroom and accepts a glass of Chateaux Des Deus Rives Bordeaux and a seat on the angels sofa and says, quite without meaning to some hours later after Aziraphale has filled the air with his natter and chatter and gossip of ages past and present and hopeful future, “I’ve quite missed you, Angel,” and blames it on his inebriation ~~(because what else could drive him to saying so?)~~

And Aziraphale...

Aziraphale who has spent over seventy years missing Crowley but thinks to himself _what are seventy years to six thousand?_ , blinks innocent blue eyes, tilts his head as if such a notion is foreign to him, and smiles not nervously nor with any sort of stammering or giggling to avoid answering, but a proper bright slow smile that lights up his face and makes him shine and tells Crowley, “I’ve quite missed you too, you old serpent” ~~(and doesn’t blame it on his inebriation)~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more bittersweet this one, sorry it took so long; come say [hi](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/). :)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on crowleyandaziraphaleruinedme 's post [(and ensuing thread)](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/post/185557823067/okay-what-if-aziraphale-gets-discorporated-and): Okay what if… Aziraphale gets discorporated and his body is destroyed so when he comes back to Earth, after like 20 years of lectures and discipline powerpoints in heaven, he’s assigned a different body


End file.
